Deducing an Introduction
by Riffir
Summary: John and Sherlock have a discussion about introductions. In between having sex. Feel free to critique it- it was written for fun, but I'd love to know others' opinions.


Deducing an Introduction

"I think people would be a great deal nicer to you if you'd learn how to be a bit nicer to them." John ignored huff of exasperated air against his shoulder. They were lying together on top of John's bed, not quite touching but it was a near thing. "I mean, even from the beginning, you're a bit much to handle." A bit much was an understatement.

"I don't remember you complaining," Sherlock returned. John could see the movement of his eyes beneath pale eyelids. It should have been disconcerting. Instead, it seemed fitting, like Sherlock was a toy whose batteries were starting to wear out, and was simply moving more quickly, more erratically than before.

"I don't think I was given a chance to. Besides, it wouldn't have been very polite." John tried to imagine their first meeting going differently, of him demanding to know how Sherlock had magically known intimate details about him, if he had answered 'yes' to that imperiously given "problem?" The concept was foreign, but he believed it was a safe bet to say that they probably wouldn't be lying like this, together, naked, skin cells ghosting against one another.

"Polite." A gentle scoff, and Sherlock nestled closer, nose cold against John's shoulder. "Polite is overrated."

Of course it was. Normal people were polite. Normal people, in their normal, every day lives. He should have brought that up at Angelo's as well. "Normal people don't have to reconvince other people every time they do their job, either."

"Reconvince- not a real word, John."

"Don't much care, it's still true. Every time you step onto a crime scene, you have to convince Sergeant Donovan to let you past, to answer Anderson's remarks about crime scene etiquette by pointing out his failing marriage- you even have to remind Lestrade why he called you." _Because you need me_. And the Inspector, out of his depth and at his wit's end had morosely agreed. _I do._ _God help me._ "Maybe if you handled them more nicely, then they'd do the same back."

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing, and appeared completely content to breath against John's shoulder, a blast of warm air against the chill of the room. John shivered, and rolled over, extracting his shoulder, forehead resting against Sherlock's in imitation of an intimate gesture. His free hand came up and closed the gap between them, tracing the vertebrae of Sherlock's back lightly with his nails. A small shudder, and then those gray eyes were open, staring and deducing. John offered his sweetest, most innocent smile. It earned him a raised eyebrow, and he chalked it up to a failed attempt, before beginning to push at the muscles along Sherlock's back.

"So tell me, then." Sherlock's eyelids fluttered as John's fingers hit a particularly gruesome knot. "How do normal people introduce themselves, in their normal lives?"

John considered, never ceasing his ministrations to the muscles in Sherlock's back. "Handshakes, nice platitudes. They're usually looking at one another. Sometimes people even smile." He lifted his head, and gently nibbled at Sherlock's ear. The gentle sigh of breath he earned in response ghosted across his check. "People usually say 'hello,' rather than "lend me your phone."

"I wasn't speaking to you then, I was talking to Mike. And we already knew each other, so there was no need for another introduction." Sherlock seemed content to remain where he was, though he did shift his chin over to reveal that sinfully long neck. John immediately switched his attention to it, laving it with his tongue. Earlier, Sherlock had been more than vigorous in his regard to sex- he had pinned John to the bed and ridden him almost violently, thighs straining and head thrown back . Now he was pliant, relaxed, and it was just as big a turn on as when he had responded more aggressively.

John gave a small murmur of what could have been an agreement, could have been a dismissal (he himself wasn't too sure, all things considered), and pushed up to his knees, sliding his hand back down Sherlock's spine to press gently at his opening. He was still loose from earlier, still slicked up with lubricant. John added a second finger, gently stretching.

Sherlock shifted beneath him, and when John glanced up he nearly lost an eye to the corner of a condom wrapper. "If you want to, it's fine. But hurry up, you're letting in the cold air." John rolled his eyes and grabbed the condom, tearing at the foil with his teeth, fingers still buried in Sherlock's ass. The detective let a content murmur escape his lips, then pushed up onto his knees, legs falling apart. "And I'm not riding you- you can put forth some effort this time. No," he instructed imperiously as John began to kneel behind him. "Add more lubricant, then press in all at once. You're shaped more for this position anyway-."

John rolled his eyes, found that little nub inside of Sherlock and pressed harder, earning himself a gasp and a cessation to the commands that had been falling out of the detective's mouth. "Hush already," John whispered into his shoulder blades before reaching for the lube. He dripped the gel onto Sherlock's back, enjoying the startled flinch more than he probably should have. It was only a few more moments before he had pulled his fingers out, and positioned his cock at Sherlock's entrance, one hand curled around Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock took a deep breath, lowered his head, and nodded, shaggy hair bobbing back and forth over his temple.

John pressed in slowly, all at once as instructed, enjoying the muscles rippling along his cock, loving the way that the breath seemed to catch in Sherlock's chest and hold there, as though suspended in time. He slid completely in, and held still, mouth pressed to the nape of Sherlock's neck, tongue occasionally tracing the bones he felt there. "Breathe," he commanded, and nibbled lightly-not enough to hurt, just so that Sherlock could feel the scrape of enamel against skin. Beneath him, Sherlock's breath hitched, evened out, and John pulled out and pushed back in, one hand rubbing in tandem between Sherlock's legs, nothing forceful, nothing commanding, just the simple lull and swell of sex. And Sherlock seemed content with the slow push and pull, even after his commands from earlier. Perhaps he was still tender from their first bout, perhaps he had realized that it didn't have to be breath pounding hard to be intense. But he was happy to lay there, to bury his face in his arms and breathe harshly, his own hips pushing back gently as John slid home until the ragged breath caught in a keen, and he came, suddenly, without warning, over John's hand and the sheets below. It was barely a few moments later that John came as well, arching into Sherlock's body.

It took a few moments to catch his breath, and then to discover where the rag from earlier had been thrown. He threw away the old condom, cleaned the both of them briskly, and climbed back into the warm bed. Sherlock had shifted away from the damp splotch on the bed, and John crowded him against the wall in an attempt to avoid lying in it himself. He had a feeling that he would wake up the next morning with a disgustingly sticky spot against his hip.

"Is that part of the introduction process?" Sherlock asked, nose nuzzled against John's cheek.

John laughed, reveling in the drawn out, relaxed afterglow and twined his arms around bony shoulders. "Only rarely." He could feel the answering twitch of Sherlock's lips. "But usually, people settle for actually saying what their name is.."

Sherlock threw an arm around John's waist, and slid their bodies even closer. "I did."

"It isn't usually a parting comment, Sherlock." Another disinterested murmur. John yawned, allowing himself to fall into sleep.

Epilogue

Despite the late timing (and obvious distractions) of their lessons, Sherlock had appeared content to follow John's instructions on the proper way to greet a person. He had even given Sebastian a handshake, despite the fact that the two had some sort of bitter blood between them, that John wasn't certain he even wanted to know about. Still, it wasn't until they met Inspector Dimmock that Sherlock's ability to introduce himself politely truly fell apart.

Dimmock was young, proud, obviously aggressive about proving his abilities, and had heard of Sherlock well enough to know that he would have to protect his own crime scene. It was obvious that he hadn't heard enough to realize that Sherlock rarely took credit for his work, and that he was not an amateur.

Sherlock had held out his hand, attempted to introduce himself in a manner that actually sounded polite, sincere, and professional, and had been shot down brilliantly. Dimmock had taken one look at him, shoved his hands into his pockets, and set about claiming the crime scene territory as his own, informing Sherlock that he not only knew who he was, but that he could leave off messing up his crime scene. The slightly offended and shocked glance that Sherlock had shot in John's direction left little room for misinterpretation; he had followed John's advice, and had failed spectacularly. _That wasn't how that was supposed to go_

John sighed as they followed Dimmock out into the main living area of Van Coon's flat. He had a feeling he could kiss any other attempts at instilling social niceties into Sherlock goodbye. Such a pity. Still, he could always try again, after this case had been solved, when they were both exhausted, pumped up on adrenaline, and Sherlock was more than willing to listen to pillow-talk advice.


End file.
